Last Christmas, I Gave You My Heart
by aurimaedre
Summary: It's the first Christmas since The Fall and Sherlock can't stay away.


**Disclaimer: I don't own anything other than the headcanons in my head. **

Molly pulled down her sweater anxiously and looked around her temporary home of 221B, making sure it looked nice and as inviting as it could be considering the circumstances. John had moved out a few months ago to live with Mary and Molly didn't feel comfortable leaving Baker Street uninhabited. It just felt wrong. So she made arrangements with Mycroft to move into the flat, under the stipulations that she not change anything, of course. She was fine with that and even went as far as to move into John's bedroom, leaving Sherlock's untouched and preserved for when he came home… if he came home. She hadn't heard from him since he snuck out of her old flat roughly a year ago. Mycroft refused to tell her anything which left her in her worry and grief alone.

She actively tried to remain cheerful around everyone, convince them she was okay but the later it went without a word the harder it was to be convincing. She knew she must look like a wreck to everyone, her cheerful façade being just that. They must think that she was unable to move on, like a love-struck puppy but they didn't understand. They were able to achieve some closure on their grief, knowing that he was dead. She was left with the unknown and with a man who wouldn't realize what not checking in would do to her. It hurt, but when she got past the emotions it made sense. It was Sherlock, the man who would use pretty words to get what he wanted and then leave without a word. Granted, she knew he was telling her the truth that night. His voice was too raw, his tears to close to falling for it not to be true. But it didn't stop him from being Sherlock, the man who didn't understand social norms.

Molly laughed to herself, knowing that if he were hear he would scoff and ask her why she held onto hope he would send word he was okay. Of course he was okay, he was Sherlock Holmes. The man who cheated death. But Molly still worried, she would always worry. Because she loved him.

The flat looked vastly different than the previous year. Last year there was festive cheer everywhere, Mrs. Hudson having backed a ton and John putting up decorations. This year there was a sparse tree, barely decorated and some store bought snack trays. Molly could barely bring herself to make a couple batches of Christmas cookies, her heart just not in it. Last year she took half the day getting ready, curling and setting her hair, steaming her dress, taking a relaxing bubble bath, getting her make-up just right, and taking extra special care wrapping presents, his in particular. This year Molly threw on a sweater, red and not at all Christmassy, with a basic denim skirt and tights. She had thrown her hair into a messy ponytail and didn't bother with makeup. It was like for everything she remembered last year, this year did a complete one-eighty. She didn't even get gifts for anyone; that was one of their agreements.

At least the holiday allowed her to not be alone in grief. That was the only thing to be thankful for. First-time holidays without a loved one were hard on everyone and no matter how adjusted you were the raw feelings came back so no one could begrudge her or tell her how unhealthy it was that she hadn't moved on yet. That was actually the reason John decided there needed to be a get-together, so that they could mourn together and not be alone in their grief.

She had just finished checking everything over as the first guest knocked on the door. She knew without opening it that it was John and Mary. Mostly because John had likely been pacing for hours, mulling over the evening and obsessing while at the same time ready to get this over with and Mary because she would want to comfort her fiancée and best friend.

Her suspicion was confirmed when she opened the door. Mary walked in with purpose, ready to be the silent pillar of strength that evening. John, however, hesitated. She could see the conflict, the pain in his eyes. She understood it well. She felt that every time she came home and passed his room, walked by his skull or violin, or picked up his old scarf on the coat rack. It had long stopped smelling like him, but it was still a comfort to hold and warp around her neck. She would occasionally run the fringe through her fingers, lost in the memories of how he used to whip it off when he stepped into her lab.

She understood it was hard for him to come back and put on her cheerful mask, knowing that he needed her right now.

"John! Come on in!" Gosh, her voice sounded like spun candy it was so sweet. It made her want to cringe but if it helped put him at ease she would do whatever was necessary.

John took a deep breath and gave her a shaky smile before gingerly stepping across the threshold. He crossed it and paused in front of her, closing his eyes and taking another deep, slow breath. He wrapped her in a hug, "Thank you, Molly. For hosting, I think this will be good for everyone, to sit in 221B and reminisce. It will bring about another sense of closure."

He looked around, taking in the old couch and bullet-ridden wall. "I'm grateful you moved in here, Molly. I know I haven't mentioned it, but I am. Someone needs to love this place as much as he did and a new tenant… it just wouldn't be right. It would be too soon. I noticed you haven't changed anything, it's all the same?"

Molly gave a small, uneasy laugh. "Yes. It turns out Mycroft bought the place years ago, behind Sherlock's back. While he didn't care about a new tenant moving in, when he found out it was me he gave a stipulation that I couldn't change anything."

John gave her a look that plainly said he didn't believe her and she inwardly sighed, knowing this was going to be one more thing they talked about behind her back. Another thing for them to worry about. She would have to work harder now.

"There are refreshments in the kitchen. That is at least something that I changed. Immediately. It's now clean and inhabited with food, instead of body parts and chemicals."

John gave his first real chuckle; it was nice to hear him enjoy something again. It wasn't a full laugh, but it was something. It meant that he was slowly healing and she knew Mary was largely responsible.

They each grabbed a glass of wine, "So you are spending the holidays… where again?" She knew Mary had mentioned it at one of their lunches but she had forgotten. She could see John and Mary exchange a quick look.

He coughed before answering, "We are splitting up the holidays this year. Christmas Eve we will be with Harry and Christmas with Mary's family."

"Ah, first time meeting the parents, right?" She wasn't sure.

John's look turned pensive, "No, I met them a month ago. We had an engagement party with everyone, remember?"

Molly laughed quickly, "Oh yes! That's right. Sorry, work has got me befuddled lately. I have been up to my spleen in well… spleens!"

John gave her a long look before chuckling at her morbid joke. "Right. When is everyone else due?"

"Oh, any time now I reckon."

A few minutes passed by of idle chit-chat when another knock sounded at the door. Molly was thankful for the interruption, glad that she could be out from under John's watchful stare for a few moments. He really was not good at being discrete.

She opened the door to see the entourage of missing guests huddled in the small doorway. "Greg, Sally, Phillip… and Mrs. Hudson?"

"Yes, dear. I walked out and bumped into Greg downstairs. It seemed we were running on the same schedule." Mrs. Hudson explained.

"Well come in. Merry Christmas!" Molly ushered them through the door, "There are refreshments in the kitchen and the future Watsons are already here."

"The apartment looks…. Lovely, Molly." Mrs. Hudson commented stiffly while the three members of Scotland Yard exchanged uneasy looks, looks that were reminiscent of the look she caught John giving her only moments before.

Great, even the members of Scotland Yard thought she had problems. "Yes, well you know how Mycroft is. He was very specific."

Mrs. Hudson must have sensed her distress, "Yes. I forgot for a moment Mycroft technically owned this apartment. I remembered the first day he walked in here. He demanded so many things and then told me that I still "owned" the building."

"Mycroft is particular. He had me kidnapped and tried to get me to spy for him before I even knew who he was!" John added, laughing heartily.

"I have yet to meet this elusive brother. Is he coming tonight, Molly?" Mary asked, walking up to great everyone.

"No, I did manage to get ahold of him but he very abruptly declined. I don't think I got out a whole sentence before he hung up."

"That's unfortunate." Lestrade said before falling into awkward silence.

"Yes." Molly looked down at her glass, trying to think of anything to break the tension in the room. "Sally, how has the Yard been since you got promoted?"

"It's been decent. It hasn't been the same since…." Her sentence fell.

Molly rocked back a little bit before trying again. "Mrs. Hudson, are you driving out tomorrow to visit your sister tomorrow?"

"Oh, no dear. We-I- felt it would be best to stay this year."

Molly fell into silence, giving up. They all sipped their beverages and avoided each other's gazes for several minutes.

"Oh. This is absurd. Everyone is avoiding the elephant in the room, the whole purpose we are here. Sherlock." John blurted out, taking a quick drink of wine after.

Everyone looked around at each other, unwilling to go first. "Well I'm pissed." Sally stated bluntly. Everyone waited for her to continue, "I'm pissed that I got manipulated by Moriarty. I don't regret doing my job, going where the leads took me and going after a very viable suspect according to the evidence but I'm pissed I got played. It was too clean, too simple, and too obvious for it to be Sherlock. I should have seen it. If Sherlock wanted to pull on under on us he would have at least had the decency to cover his tracks more. Make it difficult and interesting… respecting our strengths and intelligence by using our weaknesses…the freak." She trailed off, her rant ending in a fond tone as she called the name.

Molly could see that Sally was more upset than she let on. She could see that Sally missed the banter with Sherlock by the fond, regretful tone she used when calling him a freak but at the same time trying to hold herself together by using the same term. Reminding her of the days she and Sherlock argued so she didn't break down in front of everyone. There was also more than a hint of respect when Sally talked about how Sherlock would have made it more difficult for them. And it was true; he would have simply because he respected them. He knew they were intelligent and Moriarity's crime showed none of regard Sherlock had for the ones he worked with. That was Moriarity's biggest flaw.

"He was bloody brilliant the damn bastard. He could walk into a crime scene and pick out evidence it would have taken my team hours to find. All while figuring out our personal lives. There was a beauty to it, seeing genius like that at work. Even if he aggravated me to no end and demeaned my intelligence." Anderson chuckled.

Molly noticed that he was shuffling back and forth, stuffing his hands awkwardly in his pockets. Was it possible that Anderson missed Sherlock? She thought he hated him and was surprised when Anderson asked if he could come tonight. But the evidence was there, from the stoop of his shoulders from grief and the way his body language was turned in from trying to hide how much he cared.

"He was always such a sweet boy… when he wanted to be." Mrs. Hudson said, dabbing her eyes with a tissue. Molly could see she was about to break down and put her arm around her for comfort, squeezing her into a hug. She knew Mrs. Hudson saw Sherlock as a surrogate son and was grieving much like a mother. It broke her heart to see Mrs. Hudson stare off, lost in memories, while doing the dishes or cleaning up. She still came and cleaned 221B on occasion, just to do anything to remind her of him and telling Molly she wasn't her housekeeper. After a few moments, Mrs. Hudson patted her arm in thanks, letting her know she was fine.

"I remember when I first met Sherlock. I had just made DI and we were all stumped over a case. We were talking about it in front of lock up when this man just solved it for us, just from hearing about the evidence. He had been pulled in for being high and he was just coming down from his fix. He shouldn't have been able to do that and none of the others believed him." Lestrade's eyes began to water, "He just looked at me, told me that my wife was cheating on me and that the next door neighbor was the murderer. He said that if he was right, which he was, that I should let him go on a warning and hire him on a consulting basis. As we all know, he was right but I told him he could only help us if he cleaned up his act and it stayed that way."

Molly could see that Lestrade was reaching his breaking point. He coughed to clear his throat, "The Sherlock Holmes I met that day was very different than the one we lost. Throughout the years I saw a broken man, eyes dead as he just walked through life change into a man with a fire in his eyes that had a purpose. I'm glad for that because he was too smart to lose himself to drugs. He became a dear friend to me, even if he did constantly steal my badge and handcuffs."

Everyone laughed, remembering some of the more, colorful, antics Sherlock would do. Molly clutched her arms closer, remembering how Sherlock would try and take home his microscope in the beginning so nobody would mess with it. She wanted desperately to lose herself in those memories like everyone else was doing but she couldn't. She needed to be here for everyone, be their shoulder to cry on and prove to them she was healing. So she would continue focusing on the others, noting their body language and deducing them.

"You know, I saw a lot during the war. I saw death every day… the death of friends, colleagues… They would die in battle or after from their wounds. You would think that one would get used to death, but it never happened. Instead I became numb. I blamed the war for making me that way, but I also blamed myself for getting injured and losing my way of life. I wasn't in a great place." Mary reached out to grasp his hand while Molly moved to his side, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder.

"Sherlock's death was different. He was my best friend. He brought me back to the land of the living, as the saying goes. He made me realize how to find fun in living again, to have a purpose. Sure, he was pretty out there sometimes but he gave me my life back and that is something I will always be thankful for."

Molly had tears running down her face by the end of his heartfelt speech. He looked at each of them and gave a watery smile before turning to her, "Do you have something you would like to add Molly?" His gaze was hopeful, hopeful that she would finally confide in someone and let them comfort and take care of her. But she couldn't. No one understood.

She placed her hand over her mouth and let the tears continue to fall. She shook her head and used her emotions to the fullest, shaking her head and letting some gasps break through so they would think she was overcome and unable to speak. She waited a few moments before saying in a crackling voice, "I'm… I'm going to go open another bottle of wine. It appears we are out."

The night went on, each sharing their favorite stories about Sherlock and laughing before ending the evening with well wishes for the holidays and safe travels. John and Mary were the last to leave, keeping Molly by the door with conversation.

Sherlock sat out on one of the terraces across the street, watching the party unfold. He was bathed in darkness, unseen by everyone save for the smolder of his cigarette. He wasn't supposed to be there; in fact he didn't even realize what he was doing, where he was going, until he was already on the plane. He had to call Mycroft to get him out of customs before he made his way to Baker Street. He knew they would have the party on the same day as last year. Sentiment would allow nothing else.

He broke into the building, telling himself he just needed a quick peek and he would leave. He got there in time to see Molly fret around the apartment and he knew he wouldn't be able to take just a quick look. It was obvious from her shuffling and cleaning that she lived there now. He knew that John wouldn't last long at Baker Street without him. More sentiment. But Molly living at Baker Street… that piece of sentiment warmed his heart. It felt right. Her being there if he could not.

He could see Molly's trepidation as she pulled down her sweater. She looked like she was getting ready to play a part, very poorly he added as an afterthought. It was obvious to him from across the street that she constantly worried. He didn't realize his long absence would have this effect on her. She should have known he was okay, he was always okay and he always won. And there was always Mycroft to pass along word that he was alright but he could see from the worry clocking Molly that Mycroft did not deem her important enough to give a simple, "He's still alive." He would have to talk to him about that.

He saw John arrive, using his cane. But that was expected too. Sherlock knew that he would regress some, but he didn't realize how much until Molly had to coax him inside the flat. He arrived with an unknown woman, a new girlfriend- no fiancée- if the ring on her finger was any indication. He would have to observe her throughout the evening. For now he knew she was the daughter of a military man, whom she lost at a young age, and a school teacher, both making her primarily a good match for John. She would understand his loss, his need for routine, and be able to give him compassion.

Sherlock flicked his dying cigarette off the terrace and immediately lit another one right as the rest of the party appeared. He expected Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade to be the only other two to show up and was surprised to see Anderson and Donovan. What surprised him more was the grief they displayed underneath their uncaring attitudes.

What struck him even more were the concerned looks everyone gave Molly. At least two of them always had their eye on her and watching carefully. Was she really suffering? For him? She put on a brave face and spoke to everyone, offering compassion and caring when needed but he could see that no one was fooled.

He watched her carefully and was only distracted when John began a speech. It was obviously about him by the way Molly moved to him and the fiancée held his hand. He saw John lean on her, drawing from her strength. It was then that Sherlock realized it was because of her the John had recovered and he was glad his friend was finally able to find someone worthy. The only thing that was left was to meet her, if he was ever able too. It would be an interaction he was sure he would enjoy for she looked like she had to fight in her.

He watched his friend finish what he was saying before shakily taking a drink, noticing the tears running down Molly's cheeks for the first time. It made his stomach knot, seeing her cry over him. He wasn't dead. There was no reason for her tears. She made her excuses and walked towards the kitchen. Sherlock didn't want to take his eyes off of her and risked stepping into a lighter part of the terrace so he could see into the kitchen. His chest clenched with what he saw.

Molly was facing away from him, her shoulders shaking violently as she grasped the counter. Her sobs had to have been silent; her body language was too tortured for there to be soft crying. She turned away from the sink, facing his direction. There were no tears, or tear tracks, running down her face showing that she had long since run out of them, leaving her with dry, heaving sobs. Sobs that wreaked her body but allowed no relief. He watched her shake her head, straighten up and poor some drinks as if her mini-break down hadn't occurred.

He realized then that he couldn't just leave. He couldn't disappear without seeing her. He flicked his cigarette over the railing and made his way to Baker Street. He knew his flat better than anyone; it wouldn't be hard to sneak in. He got in and poured himself a glass of scotch and sat on the couch, listening to her converse with John and his fiancée, Mary he learned, while he waited.

He stared at the entry way, waiting for her. He almost gasped when he saw her for the first time. He could see up close what his absence had done to her and he didn't like what he saw. She looked so tired and it was obvious that worry had been her constant companion. He hadn't even seen her face yet, he dreaded the look he would see in her eyes.

"Hello, Molly." He stood up to greet her. She gasped, both hands shot up to cover her mouth and her wine glass fell with a shatter.

"Sherlock? Is it really you?" Her voice was trembling and her eyes started to water. That annoying clenching feeling that held his gut captive squeezed further.

"Of course it's me Molly. Who else would it be?" His tone was soft and gentle, knowing that it wouldn't be good to respond how he normally would when someone asked such a simple question.

He watched her features crumple seconds before she shot across the room and jumped into his arms. His arms encircled her without a second thought and Molly, seeing that she wasn't going to get pushed away, rested her head on his chest and cried.

"I haven't heard anything since the day you left and Mycroft refused to tell me anything. I didn't know if you were alive or dead and not knowing was the worst. "

Sherlock stroked her hair, comforting her as she got his shirt wet. "I always find a way to win Molly. I assumed that Mycroft would keep you informed since it was solely due to your efforts I walked away from Barts. I will have a talk with him to rectify that immediately."

"Promise me, Sherlock. I can't go another year in limbo. I worried constantly and since I can't tell anyone I just look like a love sick school girl who can't move on."

Sherlock chucked, "I promise, I will find a way to update you more often and if I can't I will make sure Mycroft knows that you are to be kept up-to-date."

"Thank you." She said, relaxing in his arms. She felt nice there, he decided. His thin frame also appreciated the warmth she provided and he was content to stand there drawing from it. The longer he embraced her, the more relaxed he became. He also realized how tired he was. He had been running constantly for a year, tracking people down and remaining unseen. It was the first time he was able to stop and just... be.

Long moments passed as they each took comfort from the other. "Sherlock?" He responded by pressing his nose into her hair, "Hm?" His tone was sleepy and content.

"Should we move to the couch?" She sat down first and motioned for him to lie down and put his head in her lap, which he did gladly and steepled his hands under his chin. He had to contain his groan when he felt her fingers started running through his curls. The natural texture caused her to gently pull on his hair follicles and the resulting feeling was greater than any shot of drugs he could take. It was relaxing, intoxicating, and another feeling that might be considered arousal mixed with sentiment. He closed his eyes and dropped his hands. He closed his eyes and let his head turn towards her as every last ounce of stress left his body in complete surrender to those skillful fingers. It was a feeling and a picture he wanted to preserve in his mind forever and he could easily see this occurring frequently when he came back for good. Yes, Molly did indeed fit nicely at Baker Street and she would continue to fit in nicely when he returned.

Molly on the other hand, was anything but relaxed. She could hear Sherlock's suppressed groan when she started and it caused a shiver to run through her, making her notice every little sensation and amplifying it tenfold. It also made her want to see what she could do to get that groan to release itself from deep inside Sherlock's chest.

She could feel him relax into her and when he turned his head towards her, eyes closed, she had to suppress her physical reaction. She was suddenly very glad and very unhappy she chose to wear tights underneath her skirt. She could feel Sherlock's hot breath on her legs, the heat seeping and trapping inside the fabric. These sensations made her thoughts wander and fixate on the slim hint of collarbone showing itself due to his position in her lap. It looked inviting and was practically scandalous for Sherlock. She wanted to run her hand over it and then dip it underneath, popping the buttons on his too-tight shirt until she reached the top of his trousers.

Molly had to stop herself from following through on her desires and was thankful that Sherlock was too relaxed to notice her discomfort. She had to break this up before she did something she would regret.

"So… I got you a Christmas present. Well, it's not a Christmas present, per se, or I had hoped it would be a Christmas present but it would have worked for whenever I saw you again… but I had hoped it would be Christmas when I got it…"

"Molly?"

"Yes?" she squeaked.

"You're rambling." He stated matter of factually as he sat up. Molly breathed an internal sigh of relief. "Now, you had something to give me?"

"Yes… I do." She retrieved the only perfectly wrapped present she purchased that year and handed it to him. She could see him deduce her intentions from the wrapping paper and braced herself, momentarily getting a flashback from the previous year.

"Whatever you picked has sentimental value. You obviously took your worries out on the wrapping job. It's meticulous to the point of military perfection but your hands were shaking when you tied the bow. It is slightly skewed. Your thoughts were on me, wondering if I was okay when you tied it. You must have gotten it within the past two months. I also see that you purposely kept the colors neutral but still festive. You didn't expect me back, but were hopeful." Molly blushed at his accuracy. "The tag… far less sentimental than last years. Just your name. That could either be because you didn't want a repeat of last year, which wouldn't have happened, or if it was found you didn't want people to know who it was too. Putting love on it would have risen to many questions."

He opened the gift carefully and Molly tensed. "A pocketwatch? With a landscape of London etched on the door."

Molly smiled, "Yes. So that you can take a piece of London with you." Her voice dropped, "There is also an inscription on the back."

He turned it over, "Don't forget that there are people in London who care about you. Come home to us." His voice grew gruff by the end, falling into silence. For the first time since she had met him Sherlock was speechless.

The minutes passed by as Sherlock's gaze stayed fixed on the pocketwatch. Molly grew uncomfortable, "Do… do you like it? I was a little nervous about getting it but you have to have so many covers and disguises that you needed something to keep you grounded. Keep reminding you of your goal."

Sherlock cleared his through, "There's one thing missing."

Molly's shoulders slumped. "Missing?"

"Yes." He stood up and walked over to the bookshelf where some photos were propped up. He grabbed the scissors before sitting back down. "Do you need this picture?"

Molly looked at him, confused. "No? I have a copy of it on my computer."

"Good." He began cutting the photo until it was a perfect circle. He stuck it underneath the rim of the watch door. "There. Now it is perfect. It will help me remember to contact you so that this doesn't happen again."

"So… you like it?"

Sherlock gave her a soft smile and gently pushed her hair behind her ear, leaving his hand resting on her cheek. "Yes, Molly. It is the most thoughtful gift I have been given. Thank you."

Molly drew her bottom lip into her mouth and blushed. "I got you something too. I was going to leave it in your room before I left, but I am finding myself… pleased that I can give this to you in person."

He withdrew a small package from his coat pocket and handed it to her. It was wrapped plainly in newspaper and was heavier than she expected. She opened it to find a notebook, partially filled with Sherlock's neat, precise handwriting.

"You're giving me your notebook?" She asked curiously.

"Open it and look through it."

She flipped it open and found that only the first fourth of the notebook was filled. She looked closer and noticed that the pages contained flowers. There was a detailed drawing, a pressed sample properly sealed in lament, seeds in a clear bag, and notes about the flowers properties, the environment it grew best in and any other facts Sherlock found necessary.

"Flowers?"

"Yes. They are the flowers that derived poisons from some of our more interesting cases we worked together. I was hunting down one of Moriarity's men and they took up residence in an exotic greenhouse. I acquired these samples, knowing that you would find them interesting. I figured we could run samples on them, grow them, run various experiments when I got back. That is why there are some blank pages following each sample."

Molly flipped through each of the flowers. Autumn crocus, or meadow saffron from the first case that ranked a nine Sherlock worked. It was Molly that figured out what the poison was. The next was Lilly of the Valley from the case that got Sherlock his consulting spot followed by Aconitum. It was more commonly known as wolf's bane or monkshood and Molly had always had a morbid fascination with the flower. She remembered when Sherlock came in with the plant. She could hardly wait to get her hands on it and begin testing. This flower had all of its pages filled out; showing Molly that Sherlock only included it because he remembered how much Molly enjoyed working that case. She moved to the last flower, opium. So this was why he gave her this present. It was the most personal of the flowers, heroin being one of its creations. Molly let her hands run over the page. It was supposed to symbolize him when he first met her, still detoxing from the drugs.

Sherlock watched her stare at the page knowing, just as she somehow always did, what he meant. Molly was the only one to know him. She knew him at his worst and she knew him at his best. She was always there for him and she loved him unconditionally. He wasn't worthy of her.

She looked up at him, her eyes sparkling. "Thank you, Sherlock. I love it."

He smiled, "Just make sure that if you grow one of them in the apartment, which I do strongly encourage, place it somewhere high so Toby doesn't get curious."

She beamed at him and his heart stuttered. "Of course. I think a Lily of the Valley would grace Baker Street nicely. And it is the most boring to you. I'll wait for the rest until you get back."

And there it was, her compassion shining through again. He also took more joy than he cared to admit that she pictured herself living at Baker Street with him when he returned. He inched closer towards her, "That sounds lovely. I look forward to it." He dropped down and placed a light kiss on her cheek. He kissed her in the same spot, with the same pressure and sincerity, as the previous year, making up for the previous year when the kiss was giving in apology instead of caring.

He felt Molly draw in a gasp when his lips touched her skin. He could feel the air puff against him. He drew back slightly and noticed her parted lips and dilated pupils. Without thinking and just acting on desire he touched his lips to hers. It was a soft kiss, a simple meeting of the lips but it shook him to his core. He pulled back and admired the blush that stained her skin, "Merry Christmas, Molly Hooper."

"Merry Christmas, Sherlock." She said shyly before asking, "How long will you get to stay?"

He knew he should leave right then but he couldn't. "In the morning."

"We should get some sleep then. Your room is exactly how you left it so everything should be in order." They stood and walked down the hallway together, briefly stopping at Sherlock's door.

Molly fidgeted before stepping forward and placing a kiss on his cheek. "Goodnight, Sherlock. I'm glad you decided to come tonight."

She turned and Sherlock found himself reaching out to grasp her arm. "Wait."

"Yes?"

"Would you like to stay with me? It is a rather large bed and after being on my own for a year, with no human contact I find myself not wanting to be alone if I don't have to be."

Molly gave him another sweet smile, "Okay. Let me go get ready and I will join you momentarily."

Sherlock left the door open for her and got into bed, not understanding why he asked her to join him. He was confused by his actions and confused by his feelings. He wanted her to stay in his bed for the reasons he said, but also because a part of him wanted her to fall asleep on his things. He wanted his belongings to smell like her tropical shampoo and he wanted her to smell like him. It confused him but it was something he wasn't willing to analyze right at that moment. For now, he wanted to just be.

She joined him shortly thereafter and they slept on their own respective sides but it was enough for him. It was enough to give him comfort, make him remember that there was someone who needed him, who remembered him. He slept soundly that night, getting more rest than he intended. He woke up before her and got ready to leave. It would be better this way, to leave while she was asleep. But he wouldn't leave her like he did last time, with no word. He wrote her a note and left it on his pillow before brushing her hair out of her face and kissing her forehead with a silent promise to return. He gazed at her sleeping form one more time before leaving to finish what he started. He had a renewed purpose in his fight and a new person to come home to, someone that was more important than even he first realized.


End file.
